


Holwood, Monday, May 28, 1798

by Altopiano



Category: 18th Century CE RPF, Historical RPF
Genre: 18th Century, Historical
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-28
Updated: 2011-05-28
Packaged: 2017-10-19 21:02:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/205166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Altopiano/pseuds/Altopiano
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>William Pitt spends his birthday at his country villa</p>
            </blockquote>





	Holwood, Monday, May 28, 1798

When had the ivy grown up so? This oak was no sapling, and was of a sturdiness to bear the assault without visible injury, but still Pitt wished he had brought a brish-hook with him, as once had been his usual practice on these morning walks. How long, though, since he had tended his own gardens, or ventured any distance from the house? If the thickness of the clasping stems were any guide, he had not been this way for many a season.

Pitt leaned his weight against the rugged bole, grateful for the fresh morning breeze that played among the leaves. He was tired, there was no disguising it. An unaccustomed languor had for some time had hold of him, and on this day, which of all others ought to bring him cheer, the enervation of his senses seemed only more marked than usual.

He knew well enough that he had been over-exerting himself—not just lately, but for years past. He did not thrive, as his father had, on the business of War; unfortunate, then, that the task had fallen to him, a task that now expropriated all his faculties. For above a decade, this dear haven—his beloved Holwood—had infallibly proved a restorative retreat from the fatigues of office: a place of solace where he could recruit his failing energy and raise up his flagging spirits. In happier days, he had superintended great improvements here—streams diverted from their course; hillocks levelled; entire plantations removed at his command: these were the activities with which he had amused himself and which had enabled him to return time and again to the political fray, refreshed and reinvigorated. And even in these dark times, withdrawing here in solitude or in the company of friends, his burthens would be for a while lifted by the delightful airs and pleasant prospects of his country home; and the traitorous malcontents who beset him in the House ( _Tierney_  standing sidelong just yards away—) were set at naught. Yet on this bright morn he found that, wander where he would in the sparkling late spring sunshine, no distance he traversed was far enough to put behind him the remembrance that but for an inch or two, yesterday had been the termination of his existence.

Today—the literal date of his birth—was also a _re-birth_ of sorts: a safe delivery into the final year of his fourth decade. (And what man was there in the kingdom who could look back on thirty-nine years of equal renown?) But the inescapable truth was that at any moment he could be cut down, snuffed out, and all his past achievements, all his future schemes, go for naught! The realisation hung like a veil before his eyes, so that he felt removed from the sights around him, and prevented from taking pleasure in any of his usual pursuits. Instead, wherever he turned, there constantly flashed before him  _Tierney_ , at a distance of twelve paces, a portly vision part shrouded in a telltale puff of smoke; and instead of birdsong, the peaceful Kentish vales echoed to the shockingly loud  _crack_  of a pistol shot. Over and over, the duel played out, and Pitt was weary of it. Yesterday was done; he had survived; nothing was changed. He had, in spite of all, lived to see his birthday—so why should he feel so very far from rejoicing?

He knew ought to turn his steps back to the house. It was imperative that he write a note of reassurance to his mother, before the story spread beyond the London papers into the provinces. And a heavy load of business demanded his attention before he must journey, this very evening, to the house on Wimbledon Common—so close to the scene of yesterday's _meeting_ —where he was expected to keep his birthday in appropriate fashion with loyal friends. But still he stood long before the noble tree, dismayed by the spreading, clinging ivy, and by the insupportable suspicion that he no longer had the means to remove the pestilence, to eradicate and clear it away from the heart of oak that beat within.


End file.
